


Trust and Trustworthiness

by eotu



Category: The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eotu/pseuds/eotu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A desperate Fogg turns to Jules for help, but in his wake, he brings danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust and Trustworthiness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for elynross for 2008 Yuletide Treasure. Beta'd by the incomparable VicciV

At first Jules thought the sound was part of his dream. He'd been sleeping badly, his slumber haunted by fractured images of Count Gregory and the League of Darkness. Sometimes Fogg, Rebecca, and Passepartout were there, but instead of being his allies, they would stand and watch while he was interrogated and tortured. Worse were the times they tried to come to his aid, but couldn't. One particularly distressing picture kept repeating: Fogg, one bloody hand clutched desperately over a wound in his side, the other reaching out to a bound Jules. As if Jules could help _him_, when he couldn't even help himself.

This image remained in his head as he was dragged from sleep by a tiny scratching sound. Jules had long since become inured to the sounds of the inevitable vermin that shared his garret room. The sound that woke him was too regular to be anything but human.

Jules had learned much since the first time Fogg had carried him unconscious through his window into a world of adventure and danger. He moved slowly, feigning a sleeper changing position. There was no change in the sound, and Jules identified that it was coming through the door. Still moving stealthily, Jules slipped from his bed and took up the belaying pin that Fogg insisted he keep at hand. Fogg had actually wanted Jules to have a gun, but Jules knew his own limits. He refused to keep a weapon he didn't know how to use. A gun was more likely to hurt Jules or a friend than any intruder. The cosh was a compromise to which Fogg had reluctantly agreed.

Jules crept up to the door and put his ear to it. The noise was definitely being made by someone scratching rhythmically down low on the door. Jules thought he recognized a pattern to it. It was continental code, a repeating sequence. It took Jules a few times through before he teased out the meaning.

“Verne. Fogg. C.Q.D.”

It was Fogg out there, and he needed help! Jules reached for the bolt, then paused. It could be Fogg, but it could be a ruse. There were so many enemies who knew of their acquaintance. Jules cursed under his breath. Damn Phileas Fogg and his mistrusting nature! Before he'd met the man, Jules would never have been paralyzed by indecision like this.

The signal continued. Was it getting weaker? Jules decided that leaving Fogg, possibly hurt, outside his door was worse than some imagined enemy. He unbolted the door as quietly as he could and eased it open a crack.

There was no one there.

A rustle of cloth drew his eyes to the floor. There, propped against the jamb, hand still raised to scratch at the door, was Mr. Phileas Fogg of London, England.

Jules opened the door wider, and watched Fogg tip sideways before righting himself with obvious effort. When Fogg looked up, Jules gasped. In the moonlight coming through the hall window, Jules could see that Fogg's face was drawn, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Dark stubble and dirt covered his face. Even in the dim light, Jules could tell that he was deathly pale. Worse yet, Fogg's left hand grasped his right biceps over a spreading stain on his coat sleeve, and his right hand reached for Jules.

Jules stood frozen by the image straight from his nightmare.

“Verne,” Fogg grated, “Help me up. We need to get inside. Quickly, man!”

Fogg's urgency shook Jules from his paralysis, and he did as he was told. He had to squat down and wedge his shoulder under Fogg's arm before he could lift his friend to his feet. They stumbled awkwardly inside, and Jules fumbled through closing and bolting the door. Jules room lacked comfortable places to sit, so he guided Fogg down the short staircase and over to the bed, lowering him to lean against the wall.

Jules lit a lamp and inspected his friend. In the light, Fogg looked even worse. Jules took advantage of Fogg's closed eyes to scan him thoroughly. His skin was not only pale, but waxy. Beads of perspiration clung to his hairline, and his cravatless collar was sweat-stained and wrinkled. His sleeve was definitely torn, and Jules would wager every sou in his trouser pockets that the liquid soaking it was blood.

Jules hated to disturb Fogg, who was breathing as hard as if he'd run a mile instead of just walked the few feet from the door, but he obviously needed his help. Unlike in his nightmare, Jules was free, and able to render at least some of the aid that Fogg needed. Jules gave a moment's thought to the reason Fogg had come, but put it out of his mind for more immediate concerns. Whatever had brought his friend to his door would wait.

While Fogg rested, Jules gathered the things he'd need and poured water from the ewer into the basin. He wished Passepartout were here. Fogg's valet was extremely skilled in many areas, and Jules' abilities were a poor substitute. Jules shrugged. It was up to him to help Fogg, so he would do his best.

“Fogg?” He asked softly before touching him. Jules did not want to surprise his friend. He'd had firsthand experience with Fogg's fists, and was sure that even in his weakened state Fogg could thrash him. “Fogg? I'm going to take your coat off so I can see your arm.”

Jules reached cautiously, but Fogg gripped his hand and held it still before he could do more than touch his shoulder.

“Don't.”

“Fogg, you're injured.”

“It's just a scratch.”

“It still needs to be cleaned.”

“No.” Fogg pushed Jules' hand away.

“If you don't want me to help you, why did you come here?” Jules let his irritation show.

Surprisingly, Fogg's shoulders slumped. “I needed a safe place. Just a few hours' rest, and I'll be out of your way.”

Fogg admitting he needed something? Jules was shocked. “Of course. Stay as long as you like. But, Fogg, you can't leave in this condition. If you go out like this, you'll either be arrested as a criminal or detained as a madman.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Verne.”

“I'm serious. You look...well, you look terrible. Someone's following you, right? Or you wouldn't need somewhere to hide. Trust me, if you go out like this, they'll have no problem tracking you. People remember when someone who looks like death warmed over goes by.”

“Ah. Obvious, is it?” Fogg said. “Yes, someone's following me. And no, I require nothing more than a place to stay for a few hours.”

Something rang false in Fogg's reply. Fogg's flippant tone always meant he was trying to distract his listeners from his real thoughts. Unfortunately, Jules had never been good at getting past Fogg's sarcastic barriers.

Jules shook his head. “You wouldn't say that if you could see yourself. In fact, why don't you walk over to the mirror and look at yourself.” Jules gestured across the room to the mirror hanging on the wall. “If you can honestly say you should be walking the streets of Paris looking like a half-dead lunatic, I'll shut up and leave you to your plans.”

“Fine.” Fogg pushed himself off the bed and stood. Before he could take one step, he folded forward. He would have hit the floor if Jules hadn't caught him and eased him back onto the bed.

Fogg sat slumped where he was put, eyes half-open and unfocused. He'd paled even more, and he was trembling slightly.

“Fogg, you're injured, you're filthy, you're obviously exhausted. For God's sake let me help you!” Fogg had aided Jules so many times. Why would he not accept Jules' help in return?

“Yes, all right, Verne. All right,” Fogg acquiesced. Any other time it might have worried Jules that Fogg said it like he was surrendering something vital. At the moment, Jules couldn't bring himself to care. Now, at least, he could do something for Fogg.

Jules eased the coat off Fogg's shoulders. It peeled easily off Fogg's wounded arm. It didn't seem right to remove Fogg's shirt, so, with a glance for permission, he used his kitchen knife to cut the sleeve off above the injury. The fine cotton stuck to the wound, and Jules had to soak the area with a wet rag before it let go.

The injury had long since stopped bleeding. Once Jules cleaned the dried blood away, the cut seemed minor. Something was odd, though.

“How did you get this, Fogg?”

“Knife.”

“How long ago?” Couldn't the man answer a question with a full sentence?

“Just before sunset.”

That couldn't be right. The wound was red and puffy, but it was too early for infection to set in. Jules looked at the sleeve he'd cut off. He felt the chill of fear when he saw that the knife-torn edge had a brown residue visible under the bloodstain.

“Fogg?”

“Hmm?”

“I think the knife might have been poisoned.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know?”

“Verne, I can feel it. I know when I've been poisoned.” Fogg didn't sound angry, or upset, just weary.

“I need to get a doctor!”

“Absolutely not. I forbid it.”

“Fogg, you've been _poisoned_!”

“Verne, I have no idea if the people following me know about you. If they do, they'll be watching. Any unusual activity, and they'll know I'm here. You're in enough danger just by being an acquaintance.”

“I don't care about the danger. You're getting worse. You could die!”

“_You_ don't care about the danger. What about your landlady? Are you willing to chance her? The other tenants in the building? Your neighbors on the street? These people will stop at nothing to get to me, and I am not willing to risk anyone but myself.”

Fogg was right. Jules could not think of himself alone. He had to consider the danger to others.

“No doctor, then.” Jules agreed reluctantly. How was he going to help Fogg? The man was getting sicker by the minute. Jules didn't understand how Fogg could even continue to converse coherently. His limbs were trembling visibly now, and his breathing was labored. His face was a ghastly yellow-white, except for two spots of color on his cheeks. It frightened Jules. He was terrified his friend was dying before his eyes.

Jules' eyes fell to Fogg's injured arm. At least he could clean that up. Using what Passepartout had taught him about first aid, Jules carefully cleaned the injured site. He was as gentle as he could be, but he could tell from Fogg's reaction that each touch hurt. He cradled Fogg's arm carefully as he bandaged the wound, grateful that there was no real bleeding, so he didn't have to pull the bandage tight over the tender area. When he was done, Jules rested his hand briefly on Fogg's shoulder and wished that there was something more he could do.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes before Fogg roused himself. “About those few hours rest?”

Jules was appalled at himself. He practically leapt off the bed. “Yes, of course. Use the bed. I insist.” Unbelievably, Fogg was trying to follow him up. Did he think Jules would let him sleep in a chair? Jules gently but firmly pressed Fogg back to sitting, then eased him down so he was lying on his good side and drew the thin blanket up around his shoulders.

“Do wake me at sunrise, Passepartout,” Fogg mumbled, almost too low to hear.

Jules frowned. Fogg was confusing Jules with his valet. This was bad.

Jules emptied and cleaned the basin, then he picked the chair up and set it close to the bed. From there, he could hear Fogg breathing. He could even reach Fogg, if he leaned a little.

Thinking back to Passepartout's lessons, Jules remembered one was supposed to check if a bandage on an arm was too tight by the temperature of the fingers. Jules realized he hadn't done that yet. He grasped Fogg's hand and held it for a moment, but pulled back when Fogg's long fingers started to curl around his as Fogg slept.

Jules sat back in his chair and wondered what he was doing. His friend was lying in his bed, sick, maybe dying, and Jules was just letting it happen. As he heard Fogg struggle for every breath, he decided that he would get a doctor if Fogg was any worse in the morning. It didn't matter if he put the whole of Paris in danger; Jules would _not_ let Fogg die.

\-----&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;\-----

“Verne.”

“Mmmmm?” _Dieu_, but his back hurt.

“Verne!”

Jules jerked out of his slump and blinked at Fogg? On his bed? ... right, now he remembered. “Yes. I'm awake.”

“If you would be so kind as to assist me, I shall straighten myself up as best as possible, and be on my way.” Fogg sounded exasperated. Jules wondered just how long he'd been trying to wake him.

Jules went over and reached to support Fogg's efforts to sit, remembering to avoid his injured arm. Fogg was unnaturally hot, his shirt damp with perspiration. Between the two of them, they got him upright, of a fashion, but it was obvious to Jules that Fogg was not capable of any more effort. Just sitting caused Fogg's trembling to increase to real tremors and his hoarse breathing to spasm into coughing.

Despite his debilitation, Fogg tried to push himself upright. Of course, he failed. As he fell back against the wall, Jules could hear him exhorting himself.

“Up, damn you!”

This was too much for Jules. Fogg appeared half dead leaning with his head tipped back against the wall. His eyes were mostly closed, but Jules could see the white crescents of his eyeballs rolled back. His breathing was shallow and rapid. His hands shook.

Jules was bewildered by the depth of his desire to comfort Fogg. It was all Jules could do to keep his hands to himself when with all his heart he wanted to care for Fogg – brush the hair off his forehead, wipe his sweating brow, offer him water, lower him back to the mattress and cover him with the blanket. He remembered last night's decision to get a doctor. Jules would have done it, except he was sure that without someone watching him, Fogg would try to rise again, and Jules was terrified the effort would kill his friend.

Fogg was fighting the poison for a reason. He had something to do. Perhaps Jules could ease Fogg's distress by taking over the task that was driving his friend.

Jules snorted. Fogg was the most secretive man he knew. Jules knew more about Count Gregory than he did about Fogg. Nevertheless, it was the only idea Jules had – convince Fogg to let him help. Jules got a glass of water for Fogg, and hitched his chair around to face the bed in preparation for the daunting task of prying information from Phileas Fogg.

In the end, it didn't take as long as Jules had feared it would. Perhaps the poison in Fogg's system made him malleable. With a little coaxing and a little logic, Jules was unsurprised to learn that Fogg was helping his cousin perform a task for the British Secret Service. Apparently, the two Foggs had liberated a document from a Prussian nobleman that outlined the German Empire's plans to destabilize the French government.

Fogg and Rebecca had parted at the border, she to take the Aurora into Germany and gather more intelligence, and he to deliver the document to the Secret Service. Apparently, the Foggs hadn't been as circumspect as they should have been. The nobleman had discovered the theft and linked it to Fogg and Rebecca. He'd dispatched an agent to retrieve the document by whatever means necessary.

Fogg had encountered the agent, and his poisoned knife, before he could deliver the document. Fortunately for Fogg, it was a glancing blow and most of the poison ended up on his clothing. Otherwise, he'd be dead in the street, and the document would be on its way back to Germany.

“I could tell right away that I'd been poisoned. The enemy was between me and the embassy. I came to the only other place in Paris where I knew I would find shelter unencumbered by questions.” Fogg's voice had grown weaker as he'd talked, but even Jules' worry couldn't completely quench the warmth he felt at Fogg's implied trust.

The result of all this, of course, was that Fogg still had the document, and the document still needed to be delivered. To Jules, the solution was obvious. He would take on the task that Fogg was unable to complete. But, how on Earth was he to phrase it? What argument would convince Fogg?

“Fogg, I don't think you can complete this delivery.”

“I must,” Fogg said.

Jules heard the conviction behind the simple statement. If his muscles would obey him for even an instant, Fogg would be up and out the door, forcing himself to carry on past all reasoning. This determination would kill him – either his enemies would find him, or the poison in his veins would finally overwhelm him.

“Please, Fogg, let me finish. You can't deliver the document, but I can. Give me the contact information, and I'll be your agent.”

“Impossible.”

“No, impossible is you getting out of this bed and making your way to some rendezvous. You can't even sit upright. How do you expect to make your way through Paris?”

“I cannot allow it.” Weak his body might be, but Fogg's will made the statement ring with finality.

Jules tried to maintain his voice of reason, but this absolute refusal cut deeply, and he reacted without thinking.

“What does it take, Fogg? Haven't I proven myself yet?” Jules leapt out of his chair and started to pace. He knew he was being histrionic, but he could no longer keep it inside. Fogg was dying. Dying! And he still couldn't trust Jules to deliver a document. Did he think Jules would sell it to the Prussians? Get tired of waiting for the contact and leave? Drop the document in the Seine? From the time they met, when Fogg had suspected him of trying to murder the Queen, Jules had not betrayed him. Now Jules was going to lose his friend without ever having his trust. The bitterness of it all almost choked him, and he had to turn from Fogg to hide the tears that stung his eyes.

“Don't be absurd, Verne. That assassin is still out there, looking for me, for the document. He'll be watching the British Embassy. I would be allowing you to put yourself directly in harm's way because _I_ failed at _my_ task. And so I repeat, I cannot allow it.”

“And if you don't allow it, it will never get done. Be reasonable! You cannot stand, much less walk. You may even be dying.” Jules heard his own voice thicken, but plunged on. “Trust me. I can deliver the document. The German agent won't recognize me. I'll hand the thing over and be gone.” Jules saw Fogg slump again and fell silent.

“You are not trained.”

“I'm better at it now than when I met you.”

“It's a long way to the British Embassy.”

“I know Paris.”

“You have an answer for every argument, don't you?” Did Fogg's lips just twitch?

Jules looked directly at his friend, eyes narrowed. “Yes, Fogg, I have. I'm right, and the sooner you admit it, the sooner that damned document is where it belongs.” And the sooner Jules could fetch help for Fogg.

“Very well, Verne. I bow to your superior logic.”

Jules knew Fogg had only done so because the argument was exhausting him, but he'd take anything he could get.

“Thank God! Now, have some water, then tell me what to do.” Jules returned to his chair next to the bed. Fogg was going to trust him, and he was going to come through.

\-----&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;\-----

Jules chose an inconspicuous corner from which to watch the embassy main entrance. Fogg had told him that the Secret Service contact was expecting the document, and would make his way to a certain café daily until Fogg made the delivery. The time changed each day, but the other details stayed the same. Jules could feel the document in his inside pocket. It was astonishing how a few pieces of foolscap could be so heavy.

Jules wondered how Fogg was faring. At the last, he hadn't wanted to leave his friend, terrified that Fogg would be dead when he returned. But this was important, to France and to Fogg, and he'd promised. After the effort it took to convince Fogg to let him do this, he had no choice. He could not fail.

There! No mistaking Fogg's contact. He was exactly as described, down to the burgundy leather portfolio under his arm. Jules slipped into the nearby alley and headed to the café via a roundabout route. The contact was to wait at an outdoor table for a full hour. Jules would catch up with him after he was seated. After all, the man was expecting Fogg. When Jules showed up, he would be suspicious. Jules wanted him somewhere public, where he wouldn't fuss. He'd have to give Jules the time to explain, if only to avoid calling attention to their conversation.

Ten minutes, and Jules had his contact in sight again. As expected, the man was drinking coffee at an outdoor table. Jules reached inside his jacket to reassure himself that the papers were still there, and started across the boulevard.

Not ten steps into his approach, Jules watched another man near his contact. Knowing he couldn't talk to the contact in front of anyone else, Jules changed his course to turn the nearest corner. He stopped and leaned against the wall, looking, he hoped, like any Paris loiterer. From this vantage he could see the café, and there he stood, and watched a disastrous drama unfold.

The newcomer passed close by the embassy contact and moved on. Jules watched him melt into the crowd, then turned back to the café. The Secret Service man had collapsed in violent spasms and the people in the café were trying to help him. Jules caught a movement at the edge of the crowd. A street urchin with a burgundy leather portfolio was creeping away from the café.

Jules followed. He tracked the boy through the twisting alleys until the urchin stopped at another café, where he exchanged the portfolio for a few coins. Jules kept walking. He recognized the man who had brushed against his contact. This was the man who was responsible for what happened at the other café, and was probably responsible for poisoning Fogg.

Keeping a steady pace. Jules continued past the second café and made his way back to his vantage post by the first café. He arrived just in time to see the owner drape a tablecloth over the now still body of the embassy man.

“_Merde!_” Jules was furious and afraid. He'd sworn he'd be as diligent about this as Fogg himself. If he failed now, Fogg would never trust him again. Fogg would probably never see him again. Then again, if he _had_ delivered the document, it would now be in the hands of the enemy agent.

Still, he had to devise some way of getting the papers into safe hands, and he only knew two people who would count as safe – Sir Jonathan Chatsworth and Rebecca Fogg. Sir Jonathan was surely in London, and as out of reach as if he were on the moon. Only God knew where Rebecca was, flying somewhere over Europe in the Aurora.

The only straw that Jules could grasp was Passepartout. Wherever the Aurora went, Passepartout steered her. Passepartout, who possessed an uncanny ability to receive messages sent to Fogg's London townhouse no matter where the Aurora was. A telegram sent to Saville Row might somehow get to Rebecca, so Jules sent it. He didn't have to explain anything. Just the fact of Fogg's presence in Jules' room would tell her what she needed to know. Although Fogg seemed to have little trust in Jules, the same was not true of Passepartout and Rebecca. He didn't know if anything would come of his wire, but it was the only hope he had. Jules would know within two days, one way or the other.

Jules did not know if the agent had noticed him near the café, but it was no secret that Phileas Fogg had visited Jules before. An intelligent man would be able to track him there. Dodging through crowds, using back streets, cutting through shops when he could, Jules headed for his room. The delay was a special kind of torture. His imagination concocted the most terrifying scenarios, in spite of his efforts to suppress them. Damn Fogg, anyway. Why did he have to care so much?

\-----&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;\-----

The hours felt like days before Jules thought it safe enough to return to his room. He was afraid to enter, afraid of what he'd find. He saw what the poison did to the agent he was supposed to meet. Though Fogg had received a much smaller dose, he would certainly suffer many of the same symptoms.

Jules slipped quietly into his room. The sour sweat smell hit him, but nothing worse assailed his nose. Steeling himself, he rushed to the bed. In the dim light Jules couldn't see movement, but he could hear Fogg's labored breathing. Craving more reassurance, he gently placed his hand on Fogg's back, just to feel his ribs move.

Fogg shifted slightly at the touch, murmured a soft hum, then fell still. Jules let himself touch Fogg for a few more seconds. He knew he was delaying the moment when he'd have to tell Fogg what had happened, but after the day's failure, Jules needed this tiny comfort before he was ready to deal with any more bad news.

Jules moved his hand to Fogg's shoulder and shook it gently. At first there was no response. Jules' heart stuttered with the thought that perhaps Fogg was in some final decline. He tried again.

“Fogg?” Shake. “Fogg?”

Fogg grunted.

“Fogg? Wake up.”

“Verne.” Jules could hardly hear him.

“Yes, it's me. Wake up.”

“Verne. No.”

“Please, Fogg. Wake up.”

“No. No! Stop! Verne, where are you?” Fogg's voice got louder.

“I'm here, Fogg.”

“Verne!” Fogg began to struggle weakly against the blanket wrapped awkwardly around his body. “No! Leave him alone!... _Verne_!”

“Here. I'm here!” Jules doubted his friend could hear him.

Fogg's struggles became more pronounced. Jules tried to untangle the blanket, but as he reached over his friend's body, Fogg grabbed him by the wrists and pulled him close, forcing them chest to chest, Fogg's harsh breath on Jules' cheek.

Suddenly Fogg's eyes flew open. The whites were bloodshot and the pupils contracted to pinpricks. Jules didn't know what Fogg was seeing – obviously not Jules – but his ferocious grimace told of something both horrifying and infuriating.

“What have you done with him?” Fogg growled, spittle hitting Jules' face. “I'll kill y... Ahhh!”

Fogg's body convulsed, and he arched against the bed. His hands locked into claws around Jules' wrists and his arms spasmed to pull Jules across his body. Jules squirmed and tried to break loose, but he had no leverage. Fogg's fit made him strong, so strong, and Jules would have to break Fogg's fingers to get free.

Jules struggled against Fogg's hold to no avail. They were pressed together in the narrow bed. Jules thought about kicking himself free, but he couldn't bring himself to hurt Fogg even the slightest bit.

Fogg's body spasmed again, and Jules was pulled impossibly nearer. They were close enough for Jules to feel the scratch of Fogg's stubble on his cheek. Fogg squeezed his wrists until the bones grated painfully.

“Fogg. You're hurting me,” Jules said softly, directly into Fogg's ear.

The result was astonishing. Fogg's grip eased immediately and his arms relaxed. “Verne?” He asked querulously.

“Yes.” Jules was still lying atop Fogg, his lips almost touching Fogg's temple. He stifled an inappropriate urge to mouth the vulnerable skin, and tried to shift away from the uncomfortably intimate position.

Fogg reacted as quickly to his movements as he had to his voice earlier. Jules found himself held firmly in place, Fogg's arms strong around him. “Verne...” This time, his name was a soft exhalation, almost a sigh.

Thoroughly embarrassed, Jules tried again to disengage himself from Fogg's clutches. “Please, Fogg, you have to let me go.”

It was then Jules felt the hard ridge of Fogg's member against his thigh. He was mortified to feel his own answering response. Jules pushed harder to get away, all the while trying desperately to ignore the friction of his prick rubbing up against Fogg's through their trousers. This was so very wrong!

“Verne.” Fogg said his name one last time, his voice tinged with sadness, then sagged to the bed, unconscious. Jules gently pried himself free and slid to the floor, turning to lean against the bedstead. He drew his knees up and bent his head to them in despair. He disgusted himself. What kind of man reacts like that to a sick friend? Surely he was bound for Hell.

Jules must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew he was jerking awake in a panic. The embassy contact had died after his seizure, and Jules had been too absorbed in his own shame to keep an eye on Fogg. He shifted stiffly to his knees. Fogg was lying motionless on the bed, and Jules could no longer hear the labored breathing that had marked most of Fogg's illness. Jules feared the worst.

The pink glow of dawn was visible through the garret window, but it was still too dark for Jules to see any motion of Fogg's chest. He cautiously reached out a hand and placed it on the soft skin of Fogg's throat. There it was – a strong, even pulse.

Jules sat back abruptly, weak from relief. He reached out again, just to verify that it hadn't been his imagination. The steady beat was still there. If Jules let his fingers linger against Fogg's throat longer than a simple pulse reading would take, it was merely to verify that Fogg was cooler than he'd been. The fever had broken.

Fogg sighed and shifted slightly, dislodging Jules' hand. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, and Jules decided to let him. There was no sense in waking him to the bad news that Jules had failed to hand off the document. He would find out soon enough. By then, maybe he'd hear from Rebecca or Passepartout. Jules was willing to hope now. Fogg was pulling through, and that was the best of omens that this whole frightening adventure was nearing an end.

As if to laugh at Jules' optimism, something heavy slammed against the door. Jules jumped. The noise came again. Whoever, whatever that was would be through the door soon. Jules drew the blanket over the man sleeping in his bed, and tossed all the clothing he could find on top. It looked odd, but maybe it would disguise the fact that Fogg was lying there helpless.

Jules knew he wasn't in any better situation. He snatched up the document that was causing all the trouble from the writing desk where it lay. Then, he went to stand near the half-open window. He'd try his best to lure whoever came through the door out the window and away from Fogg. It wasn't much, but it was all Jules had. He certainly couldn't defend Fogg against the agent he'd seen at the café. They'd both end up dead.

Another two blows, and the door burst inward. As Jules had feared, it was the German agent.

“Hey! Over here!” Jules yelled, waving the paper overhead, making sure to show off the garish sigil that identified it. “I have what you want.” He had the man's attention now. “Come get it!” Jules stuffed the document into his inside pocket and flung the window the rest of the way open. He grabbed the sash and swung himself to the roof. Moving as quickly as he could on the sloped surface, Jules headed along edge. His one thought was to get the enemy agent as far from Fogg as possible.

Jules paused, heart beating furiously, waiting to see if he was being followed. Jules needed his pursuer focused on the document. If the man found Fogg, he'd use him as a hostage. Jules knew he'd instantly surrender the document to save Fogg, even though doing so would totally destroy their friendship.

There. The assassin was following Jules onto the roof. Jules clambered along the eaves to the end of the building and tried not to think about how idiotic he was. He may have saved Fogg, but he wasn't sure he could save himself.

He got to the corner and gauged the distance to the next building. Could he jump? Would the other man follow? Jules decided it was too far. He turned the corner and kept going.

The next neighboring building was too tall. No luck there. Was he doomed to circle this building until the assassin caught him or a misstep sent him crashing to the street four stories below?

The next building was also too far away. Jules realized that he had nowhere to go. Every time he paused, his pursuer got closer. Eventually the agent would catch him, kill him and take the document. That, or he'd tire of the chase, return to Jules' room and find Fogg.

Wait! Couldn't Jules do the same? If he could get back to his room, get inside and latch the window, it might give him enough time to get Fogg out of the room, out of the building and into the streets, where they could lose themselves.

Jules stopped traveling around the roof, and started climbing up. The going was treacherous. Some of the slate tiles were loose. Jules was terrified that he'd slip and go tumbling off. There was no relief when he reached the peak. He didn't know if it was good luck or bad that put him right above his own window. There was no easing the descent by going diagonally – he had to go straight down.

He heard the the chink of stone on stone and looked back. His pursuer was climbing steadily at a diagonal toward him. He had to get inside his room now, or there'd be no time to get Fogg off the bed and out of the building. Looking down the steep slope to his window made Jules dizzy. He wished he could close his eyes, but he didn't dare. Jules began to inch his way down crablike, with all four limbs and his backside as much in contact with the roof tiles as possible.

About halfway down, Jules' leg slipped. He skidded a ways before he was able to regain a solid purchase. His heart hammered against his ribs and he desperately wanted to stop for a minute. He risked looking over his shoulder, even though it made his head spin. The man behind him was closing the gap. Jules had to keep going.

He started down again. It was only a few more yards. He was almost there, and then, he was there! Jules grabbed the sill and rolled onto his front. He was about to pull himself inside when something slammed into him, hard. Jules barely managed to keep his grip against the blow.

Jules turned his head. The assassin was beside him, sitting on the roof, his legs drawn back to deliver another kick. Another blow or two like the first, and he would knock Jules to the street. It would be easy to retrieve the document off Jules' broken body then blend into the crowd and escape.

The man kicked Jules firmly in the ribs. Jules could see it coming, but do nothing to stop or avoid it. The only thing that saved Jules was the grip he had on the window sill. He knew he'd be dislodged eventually if the blows continued.

Jules was bracing himself for another blow when something moving in the room caught his attention. The room was very dark beyond a few feet near the window, and Jules couldn't see clearly. Especially when the man's foot caught him in the ribs again.

Then Fogg moved into the light. He looked horrible. His skin was still grayish, his eyes bloodshot and sunken, and his lips cracked and dry. Even so, the alert look in his eye was the most beautiful thing Jules had ever seen.

A plan flashed through Jules' mind. He looked straight into Fogg's eyes, trying to signal silently to be ready. Fogg nodded sharply. Message received. Now all Jules had to do was be brave enough, strong enough, and quick enough.

With the next kick, Jules let go of the sill, making it look like the blow had dislodged him. He slid downward and let his legs dangle over the edge of the roof. His torso was still supported, and he braced his hands on the gutter.

This new position put Jules too far away for another kick to connect. Sure of his victory, the enemy agent followed Jules so that he could deliver the coup de grâce. In order to reach Jules, the man had to pass directly in front of the open window. As he did so, Fogg shoved with all his might. With a terrifying scream, the man toppled over the edge and plummeted to the street.

Jules heard the dull thud of his landing and shuddered. There was no time for a breather. He needed to get off the roof before he slipped and joined the assassin on the cobblestones.

Jules dared a glance upward. Fogg was still at the window. He was reaching to help. If Jules could just inch a little way up the tiles, he'd be able to grab hold of Fogg's hands. Two feet more, and he'd be inside and safe.

Jules drew one leg up to brace against the gutter. A tiny push put him close enough for Fogg to grab one wrist. He drew the other leg up, and shoved, hoping to boost himself all the way to the sill. That's when the gutter broke. For a moment Jules flailed, tethered only by the hand Fogg was holding.

“No!” Fogg shouted and lunged forward. For an instant Jules thought Fogg would go over the sill and they'd both plummet to their deaths. Instead, Fogg caught his other hand and pulled. It wasn't enough to drag Jules through the window, but now at least he was laying partially against the roof, his legs kicking gently in the open air above the street.

There was a moment of stillness. Jules could hear his own heartbeat. A babble of voices told him a crowd was gathering around the body in the street below. So many people, and all of them oblivious to his desperation directly above their heads.

Jules looked up into Fogg's eyes and saw unalloyed anguish. His friend obviously knew as well as he: it was only a matter of time before Fogg's hands slipped. If he'd had the strength to pull Jules to safety, he'd have already done so.

Jules saw his doom in Fogg's bleak expression. A single bead of sweat rolled down Fogg's temple. The tendons in his neck stood out as he strained to keep gravity from claiming Jules. Jules knew it would kill Fogg to let him fall. He wished he could spare his friend the pain.

“Fogg,” Jules gasped out, then stopped. What could he say? The document is in my inside coat pocket, you can get it off my body after I fall? You were right, I can't be trusted? While you were sick, I almost molested you? What came out was, “I'm sorry.”

Fogg's face twisted in pain. “Don't, Verne...” Jules saw his throat work as he swallowed hard.

Jules wanted to offer words of comfort, but none came. Nothing he said would make any difference now. Jules smiled weakly and turned his head away to lay his cheek against the cool slate roof. Closing his eyes, he tried to come to peace with the inevitable, grateful for the small blessing that the last human touch he felt would be Fogg's.

As he lay there, Jules sensed a subtle change in the air, a low, rhythmic pulse that was almost more vibration than sound. It got louder, and then he felt a shadow cover him, blocking the morning sun that shone over the rooftops of Paris. Jules dared not look up. He feared that any movement would send him dropping to the cobblestones.

“It's the Aurora!” Fogg shouted, astonished.

Jules wanted to see.

“Be still!” Fogg said sharply, before Jules could lift his head. He felt Fogg squeeze down on his wrists. “Rebecca is using the winch.”

Jules heard the cable unwinding, stopping. Rebecca had come. He was not dying today. Jules was glad his face was turned away from witnesses as he swallowed thickly and blinked.

“Well, Jules, you do seem to end up in the most awkward places, don't you?” Rebecca's gentle teasing made Jules smile.

“Hullo, Rebecca,” he managed to croak.

“I'm going to put this harness around you, and we'll get you into the Aurora in a moment.” She matched actions to words, efficiently placing a few leather straps around his torso and legs and buckling them snugly.

The winch whined again, and Jules was lifted off the roof. Rebecca stayed with him, steadying him so that he wouldn't sway. As he rose, Jules felt a tug at his arms, and realized Fogg was still holding his wrists. He looked down to see Fogg following his ascent. Their eyes locked as Fogg released him, and for the rest of the short trip, their gaze held.

\-----&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;\-----

Jules had sworn to himself that he would not accompany the Foggs to England. He needed distance. He'd failed Fogg, had insisted he could do a task that he could not complete. The Aurora's arrival, like deus ex machina, was the only reason the enterprise hadn't ended in disaster. He was sure, after his bungling, that Fogg would not want him around. To top it off, there was Jules' physical reaction to Fogg. He needed solitude to deal with that.

All Jules objections could not stand in the face of Passepartout's concern. “Master Jules, you are looking like the dragging cat!” the valet fussed. “Mr. Fogg insisting I take care of you. He say you have maybe the broken ribs. Also, look at your wrists! Your bag I already bring on board. Mr Fogg say you stay, so you stay!” Jules suspected Passepartout was invoking Fogg as a smoke screen for his own concern, but the valet was letting Jules see the resolute man who lived behind the mask of affable buffoonery, and that, more than anything, told Jules it was useless to argue.

Jules supposed he was lucky. Fogg hadn't had a chance to say a word. Rebecca had hurried him up the gangplank and into his stateroom without a by-your-leave. As Rebecca escorted Fogg past, Passepartout was inspecting the bruises ringing Jules' wrists. Jules had looked up to catch Fogg staring at the deepening marks with burning intensity. Fogg's flicked his glance up to meet Jules', then looked quickly away.

The two men hadn't seen or talked to each other since.

Now, cleaned up, injuries inspected and declared merely bruises, and settled in the main cabin with a generous afternoon tea – and orders to consume it – Jules wondered if he could manage to avoid Fogg for the rest of the trip across the Channel. There were nooks up by the rigging he'd found on previous trips. He could borrow a notebook. His friends were used to giving him space while he was writing. Jules longed to be back in Paris. His room didn't begin to compare with the comfort of the Aurora, but there at least he could be alone.

With the contrariness that had marked the whole adventure, Fogg's stateroom door opened just a few feet from where Jules sat.

“Verne? Might I trouble you for a word in private?” Fogg was at his starchiest. He, too, had gotten a chance to shave, wash, and change. Barely any sign remained of the illness that almost claimed his life less than a day ago – a slight pallor, a bit of haggardness about the eyes. If Jules hadn't seen for himself, he would never have believed that Fogg could have looked so drawn and desperate.

Jules stood. He didn't see any way he could avoid this. Besides, he deserved to be taken to task. He had failed. Now was better than later, he supposed. Fogg wouldn't drop him into the Channel. He'd be icily polite for the rest of the trip, make sure Jules got back to Paris safely, and that would close the book on their friendship. The few steps to Fogg's room were long enough for Jules to recognize the empty spot in his chest that had once been filled by Fogg's regard.

Jules came into the room just far enough for Fogg to step around him after he closed the door. Fogg gestured to a chair, but Jules preferred to stand for this. He regretted that decision when Fogg also remained standing, because his friend was obviously still unwell – Jules could see it in the way Fogg used the chair at the writing desk to steady himself.

Each tick of the desk clock sounded distinctly as Jules waited, eyes downcast, for Fogg to speak. He wondered if this was how the condemned man felt on the guillotine platform. He wished Fogg would just get it over with, and he dreaded the words that would end the friendship.

“Verne...” Fogg began, then hesitated, cleared his throat.

Could Fogg be regretting this, too? Jules took comfort from the idea that Fogg might miss his friendship a little.

Fogg began again, stiffly. “Verne, I owe you an apology.”

Jules' eyes snapped to Fogg's face. This was unexpected, and Jules' denial was swift. “No, Fogg, I... What?”

Fogg looked uncomfortable. Phileas Fogg. Looked uncomfortable. Jules had watched Fogg fight men and supernatural creatures. He'd watched him fend off femmes fatale and gently deflect confused maidens. He'd watched him discuss scientific wonders with children and placate monarchs. Jules had watched him fight his way back from despair so black it threatened to destroy everything Fogg held dear. Jules had never seen Fogg unsure the way he appeared now. He had accepted the frantic and bedraggled Fogg who had come to his door the other night, but the ill-at-ease Fogg before him simply did not fit into the world as Jules knew it.

“What?” Jules found himself repeating stupidly.

“I...I owe you an apology, Verne. By coming to you, I involved you in a dangerous situation. I compounded my error by foisting my responsibility onto your shoulders, and then I was a liability, forcing you to take extreme measures to protect me, when it was my actions and decisions that put you in jeopardy in the first place. I am directly and personally responsible for your injuries and I wish to apologize and to assure you that I shall never let my actions put your life at risk again.”

Jules opened his mouth to answer, but Fogg was not finished.

“In addition, should you decide, based on the experiences of the last two days, to terminate our association, I completely understand and will offer no objections.”

Jules did not allow his jaw to drop, but it was a near thing. He didn't repeat his question either, though he couldn't actually think of anything else to say. Instead, he looked at his friend, really looked at him. Fogg stood ramrod straight, his shoulders and spine rigid. There was a painful tightness around his eyes, and Jules could see a muscle twitch in Fogg's clenched jaw. Fogg was clutching the desk chair so hard his knuckles were white, and Jules half expected the wood to snap.

In front of him stood a man waiting for the blade to fall.

The relief that washed through Jules reminded him of how he had felt when the Aurora came down from heaven to rescue him. He would not die today, and he would not lose Fogg.

With the relief came the insight, so very like the creative flashes that let Jules imagine the future with such clarity. Fogg meant something to him – that was not news – but by God, Jules meant something to Fogg! As worried as Jules had been about losing Fogg's friendship, from the way Fogg looked now, it didn't even touch on how the opposite loss might affect Fogg.

This was something Jules could fix! He almost laughed, but he knew that Fogg might mistake it for derision instead of the joy bubbling through him. Jules took a deep breath and calmed himself. He had been given a chance to reach past Fogg's mask to the man beneath. Jules clung to the insight and asked Providence for guidance. The risk of losing all was still there, but the reward should he succeed...

Fogg hadn't moved. He stood waiting for Jules' response to free him. He was obviously expecting the worst, but Jules was going to disappoint him. Jules did not speak – words would do no good. To get through to Fogg, Jules knew he must be a man of action. He stepped forward.

Fogg drew himself up even tighter. Did he expect Jules to hit him? A spark of anger flared at the person who taught Fogg to expect blows. Later, there would be time for that later.

Jules approached closer. Close enough to touch. He offered his right hand. Fogg would have to release the chair to shake with Jules.

Fogg looked down at Jules' outstretched hand, then up into Jules' eyes. Jules opened his heart and let it all show. Everything Fogg had taught him, everything his friendship meant to him, everything Jules felt for him, Jules revealed it all.

Cautiously, Fogg raised his hand and grasped Jules' – a gentleman's handshake, but to Jules it was so much better. Jules closed his eyes briefly to savor the feel of Fogg's skin on his. He remembered the silent communication that had allowed them to defeat the German agent together, felt the same tiny click of connection. If they let themselves, they could have this and so much more.

As they stood there, hands joined, Fogg's face relaxed. He didn't display his emotions as openly as Jules but Jules could read them in the slight trembling of Fogg's hand, the working of his throat, and the almost invisible, instantly gone sheen of moisture in his eyes. The handclasp held, and with it their gaze. Long minutes passed as Jules stayed still as possible, afraid to break the spell between them.

Slowly, as if mesmerized, Fogg shifted his grip and looked down at the arm he was holding. Fogg pushed Jules' sleeve back to expose the injured skin. He gently turned Jules' arm, inspecting the wrist from all sides. Then softly, tenderly, he traced the bruises with a fingertip.

Jules gasped and shivered at the touch.

“I hurt you.” Fogg lowered Jules' hand as gently as he'd taken it, keeping his eyes on the injured wrist. He released Jules, and stared at the floor, seemingly fascinated by the pattern of the carpet.

“No!” Jules missed Fogg's touch immediately. He reached for Fogg, grasping wrists the way his friend had held his on the rooftop and shaking them gently to get his attention. When Fogg finally looked him in the eye, he said, quietly and sincerely, “No, you saved me.”

Again Jules was caught, searching Fogg's face. He wished for the insight he'd been gifted with moments ago. Fogg hadn't broken Jules' hold, but Jules had no idea what to do next. He stood, his heart pounding with fear and anticipation, his courage gone, terrified that he was about to let his chance, for what, he didn't know, pass him by.

Fogg moved first. He twisted his arm slowly, careful not to dislodge himself from Jules' grasp, and raised his hand toward Jules' face. Jules could barely breathe. Is this where it was going? He hardly dared hope. At the first touch to his cheek, Jules eyes fluttered closed. He leaned into Fogg's hand, just a little, just so he could feel the living warmth cupping his cheek, his jaw, his chin.

Fogg laughed. A soft chuckle that Jules not only heard, but felt as a puff of air against his ear. Startled, Jules' eyes flew open.

Fogg was so close Jules could see the flecks of gold and hazel in his green eyes. From the laugh Jules expected Fogg to mock his childish response to the touch on his face. Instead, Jules saw affection, and a tenderness that took his breath away.

Jules swallowed as Fogg closed in. There was no mistaking his intent, yet Fogg leaned in carefully, slowly. Jules didn't know if Fogg was providing him an opportunity to escape or trying to avoid startling him. Jules was not running from this. He wanted it. He ached for it.

Fogg's tongue peeked out to moisten his lower lip, and Jules' lips parted unconsciously. He mirrored the gesture, and watched Fogg's pupils widen. Oh, God, what was Fogg waiting for? Jules couldn't stand it any more. With a tiny, pleading, sound he closed the gap between their bodies and raised his face to Fogg.

Fogg lost no time claiming Jules' lips. There was no gentle exploration, no timid dry brush of lips. This was a full on assault, and Jules was a willing participant. Fogg use the hand on Jules' face to position his head just so, His other hand grasped Jules' shoulder and drew him in close. Jules found his own arms wrapped around Fogg, one at his waist and one around his neck, and he wondered when he'd let go of Fogg's wrists.

Jules had little experience with kissing, and none at all with men, but he found himself a quick study. When Fogg swept his tongue along Jules' lower lip, Jules immediately opened and let him in. He shivered at the sensation when Fogg's tongue met his own, and started immediately to twine his around Fogg's, searching for the man's flavor. It didn't take Jules long to realize where he could get more of that taste, and soon he was using his own tongue to invade, sweeping it over Fogg's lips and into his mouth with an eagerness that made Fogg growl.

They wrestled for control of the kiss, pushing at each other, trying to get as much as they could as fast as they could. Jules thought about how Fogg had almost died, about how he'd almost missed this because of an assassin's poison, and he became frantic. He heard deep, needy moaning, and realized that it was his. He knew he should be embarrassed by the way he was scrabbling at Fogg, trying to wrap himself around his friend and never let him go, but he couldn't be bothered.

At first, Fogg gave as good as he got. It was he who introduced Jules to the sensation of teeth nipping, then biting, at his lips. The one hand never left Jules face, but he let the other wander freely over Jules body, and Jules reveled at his rough touch.

Jules' bruised ribs complained as Fogg pulled him into an embrace and he couldn't stop the grunt of pain. Fogg eased up immediately and tried to pull away, but Jules held tight. He was learning the curve of Fogg's upper lip, and he wasn't going to be distracted by a little pain.

That was when Fogg's kisses changed. They became soothing instead if inflammatory. Bites calmed to nibbles. Jules' frantic grasping at Fogg's shoulders and hips was countered with long, slow strokes down Jules' back. Instead of plunging his tongue into Jules' mouth, Fogg gently traced the outline of Jules' lips with the tip. He sucked gently at the swollen pad of Jules' lower lip, and scattered small kisses at both corners of Jules' mouth. When Jules finally calmed down, Fogg fused their open mouths together, and kept their tongues dueling lazily for long minutes, until they both needed to breathe.

They drew apart reluctantly, still holding hands. Jules couldn't take his eyes off Fogg. He was beautifully mussed: his cheeks were pink, his eyes wide and dark, his hair had escaped its pomade and curled wildly over his high forehead, and his lips were swollen from Jules' kisses. Jules couldn't help but compare this Fogg to the pale and filthy man he'd found leaning against his door. Jules never wanted to see his friend in such desperate straits again. He hoped, though, that he'd get to see this dazed and disheveled Fogg often.

As Jules watched, Fogg pulled himself together. His didn't let Jules go, but he drew himself up straight and he expression turned serious.

“Verne...,” he began, then stopped and tried again. “Jules...”

Jules couldn't help smiling at hearing his name.

“Jules, you must know...Please believe...”

Jules felt a wave of affection for his painfully reserved friend. It was so hard for him to get the words out, but somehow Jules found he understood what Fogg was trying to say. He trusted Jules. He wanted Jules. Maybe he even loved Jules a little.

Jules took pity. He pulled Fogg closer and twined his arms around the taller man's neck, drawing his head down to Jules' uplifted face.

“I know, Phileas,” Jules murmured against his lips, and kissed him.


End file.
